Chain Link
by Ociwen
Summary: The road to Hell is said to be easy. Draco has a few doubts and thoughts of his own on the night he is to be Marked.


**Title:** Chain Link   
**Author name:** Ociwen  
**Author email:** ociwen@hotmail.com  
**Category:** Drama   
**Rating:** R  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF  
**Summary:** The road to Hell is said to be easy. Draco has a few doubts and thoughts of his own on the night he is to be Marked.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author notes:** Possible implications of incest- Lucius/Narcissa. Implications of Harry/Draco slash.****

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**Chain Link******

_Facilis_ descensus averno.__

The road to Hell is easy.

-Virgil

The Roman Muggles said the road to Hell is easy.

Normally, I would have scoffed at this. After all, what _do Muggles know?_

Nothing. Certainly nothing about magic at least.

But, for this, I think that they are right for once. An understatement, if I allow myself to be frank (which I _always_ am). 

My road, on the one hand, is paved in gilt. It should be this way, considering I am a Malfoy. And it is more than simply _easy_.

Hell is just two flights of stairs down from my bedroom of the Manor; in my father's private library (full of Dark Arts reference material) to be precise.

I am sitting on my bed waiting to go down. Mother had picked out my robes on her most recent trip to France, two months ago. She has been expecting this day since I was born, as have we all. The robes are black (no doubt) silk, edged with silver threading. Pure silver, as she would settle for no less for me. I _am_ her only child…

Now, anyway, for a few more months.

I think that the child she is pregnant with was an accident. A careless, Christmas accident that Father had caused when he had a little too much spiked pumpkin juice (or blood, I am not sure what exactly was served) to drink at the Annual Malfoy Christmas Dark Revel and Orgy Party.

I hope so, at least.

I, on the other hand, was planned for. I was wanted. It sickens me to my mother smiling so gaily now and patting her swollen stomach, Father sitting off in the sidelines looking pleased with himself. Mother is too old to have more children and I hope she gets morning sickness often. Father says that now is a good time to bring children into the world with the Dark Lord's ascension coming so near. "Now is a time to celebrate, Draco," he explains, "We should be pleased with the Dark Lord's strength returning to full force once more."

Well, wasn't the Dark Lord at full strength when I was born? The only heir my family needed? The first time He was all-powerful too.

I hope the child is a girl. That would serve my parents right for having more children besides me.

My room is icy. It always is, even in July, which it is now. Summer cooks the remainder of the world, the remainder of Britain even, but leaves the Manor untouched. But then, the outside world has always left the Manor timeless and unchanged. Even the family transcends time. That is probably why we have endured for so long, without being tainted by Muggles or their ideas. I can just imagine that if Muggles discovered the secrets of the family, they would storm down the door in a siege and demand that we do magic for them.

But the Manor remains cold. 

When I was little, I used to think that we had only two seasons- Winter and Slightly-Warmer-Than-Winter. I liked winter better. There was at least snow and the house-elves made treacle tarts with raisins in them at Christmas that I would sneak off with to eat in my bed at strange hours of the night.

Now I think that the Manor is cold because the Dark Lord is so close by. Down in the dungeons yesterday evening with Father, I believe. The Dark Lord sucks the warm out of everything. Like Dementors suck souls.

Good. _Certain_ individuals swoon when Dementors approach.

I do not feel the cold, though. I lost all feeling when I lost _him._

I _should_ have known better then…

I hope I can never feel again. No pain, no misery, no compassion, no happiness. Only hatred. It consumes my soul and I hope to use it well to serve my father's lord.

I am my father's son.

The high-necked collar of my robe is itching my neck. By midnight, I will have a rash- red blistering patches against my pale skin. Mother likes the high collared robes on me; she thinks they make me look aristocratic and polished. I couldn't care less. Pansy said that I looked like a vicar when I wore one similar to the Yule Ball in our fourth year at Hogwarts.

At least this time I won't have the purple hickeys to go with my red rashes.

I hear footsteps nearing my room now, outside in the hallway. They are muffled slightly by the old-fashioned moulding and tapestries that cover all the walls floor-to-ceiling. The tapestries are _supposed_ to help with the occasional drafts, but they cannot be helped, even with the permanent Incendio spells in place to warm the Manor.

I sit up straighter on my bed and tense, holding my chin high, for I know Father is there. My dragon-style doorknob turns and Father enters swiftly. For once, he is not sneering at me or looking down with condescendingly narrow eyes.

For once he can be proud of me.

He actually _almost_ smiles at me, if it were possible, and my heart soars. I know now, at this moment, that I have made the right decision. I _want_ to be just like him- powerful, proud, domineering Lucius Malfoy. I _want to command the presence that he does, and the respect. I __want the Wizarding world to worship and obey me and I _want_ the Muggles and Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers to fear me._

I want the Dark Mark, just like him. That writhing, blistering, hideous mark that pulses on his forearm to do the Dark Lord's bidding.

I _am_ my father's son.

He picks up my wand, which was casually lying atop a side table, and hands it to me after twirling it lazily in his hand. Teak, dragon heartstring, eleven and seven-quarter inches long. An immaculately innocent child's wand. I accept it blankly, as though I have never seen it. It feels heavy and foreign in my grip. It is cold and sharp and _wrong_. As though I hadn't spent the last six years using it daily.

This will be the last time I use this wand. I can sense that much.

Father purses his lips. "Are you ready?" He says this so impersonally, but I can feel that he is proud with my decision. He is likely anxious like I am, but keeps a much better air of indifference. It is just the way he is.

I try to emulate this, but I need practice. "Yes." I stand up stiffly and unclench my hands. They are hot and moist, pockets of sweat having collected between my fingers. I want to wipe them on my robes, but Mother would not be happy if I did this.

I let them hang.

Father walks out of my room quickly and I follow. Though we are of the same height, his strides are still much longer and more defined, and I struggle to keep up.

I hope we are not late for the ceremony. I cannot imagine the Dark Lord taking too keenly to tardiness.

And I have heard that the Cruciatus Curse hurts like an angry bitch.

Father clears his throat. He only does this when he is trying to keep his emotions in check. I smile inwardly at this. I have finally done _something to make him happy. "Do you realize how the ceremony will work?"_

I hesitate to answer back, not wanting to disappoint him with a potentially feeble reply. "Not…entirely." I manage. It is not an outright truth, but I _am a Slytherin, and so was he once, and all of our family, and this is okay to withhold __some information._

I can see the back of Father's head nod almost imperceptibly. He must have expected this. "It will require your blood, Draco, amongst other things," he says softly in a low voice.

I have never liked to _willingly_ bleed myself, only doing so when I have bitten a fingernail too far down into the quick or pulled a hangnail too viciously, but I need to make sacrifices. Father must have made this sacrifice, those many years ago in his own youth, and so can I.

I am his son.

"I accept this." I resolve quickly in a wavering voice. I hope it sounded more confident to my father.

"Good." I can almost see him fingering the head of his silver snake-headed stick that he carts around everywhere. That I used to pilfer from his study when I was younger and beat the house-elves who worked in the kitchen with (to hear them scream, or course!) until he caned me with it for my insolence.

I will not be insolent now. I have had my rebellion, and my father has won out in the end. I want to be just like him- his perfect son.

We are walking down the first staircase now. The stairs are immortal black marble and I worry that I might slip on their sheen. They reflect the dimmed light from the crystal chandelier overhead. I grasp the curled iron and silver-leaf railing casually and hope Father doesn't notice.

He does.

He raises an eyebrow at me. They are the same as mine, silver and fine and noble, if a little thin and pointed. Sometimes I wonder just how closely he and Mother are related. First cousins sounds a little fishy. "You aren't _nervous are you?" He looks smugly at me._

I wince a little before I can stop myself. "No." I mumble stuffily.

I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder, not paternal in any respect, but not cruel either. I meet his eyes. They are grey, like mine.

I am my father's son.

Sometimes I also wonder if any part of me is mine, or am I simply my father born anew.

"You can wait on this, you know. You have all summer, Draco. We could coincide something with your birthday, before you return to that godforsaken school for the last time…"

At the mention of _that_ place, emerald green flashes before my eyes and I narrow them, thinking of the green of _his eyes. That possessed eerie green that drives the Dark Lord on. That drives me on._

If I wait any longer, that bastard will only win.  

Malfoys don't _ever_ lose.

"No, Father." I saunter ahead down the corridor pompously to prove my point. I can hear _his_ voice now, terrifying me, teasing me, tormenting me.

_"Are you a Death Eater? I hoped not…"_

_"I know you won't hurt me again…"_

_"You aren't your father, Draco. You aren't bound to live his life over…"_

_Fuck you!_ I _am my father's son, you Gryffindor fool!_

A suit of armor in the hallway that we are passing through is tarnished yellow with age. It looks golden in the half-light from the mirrors that run the length of the hall. Golden, like _him_. The helmet morphs into his face. It is smiling, mocking with the green eyes that bore into my skull. I grind my teeth and kick the leg of the suit violently.

You can hurt me? I hope _that_ hurts!

Venting, I kick the suit three more times, ignoring the pain searing through my toes. I want to break him. I want to hurt him. The suit swings on its pedestal and crashes to the floor. His face disappears in the debris pile of breast plates, shin coverings and visor and bolts that no longer hold the armor together.

Father does not comment on my outburst, but he does stop walking. He waits for me to finish. He does not question my motives.

We descend the second staircase. Mother is waiting at the bottom. She has a smile painted on her face, but it does not reach her eyes. She looks sad and I can see her right hand clutching a lacy handkerchief, the other residing protectively on her bulging stomach, which is not hidden by the folds of her robes. She leans in as if to embrace me, but Father scowls at her, his face darkening. It is not the appropriate time for a hug and she should have known that, being the wife of a Death Eater. But she is not strong like us.

Her eyes dart to him and she succumbs, as always. Her left hand moves to linger on my cheek and she smiles wistfully again. Her mouth makes out the words 'my boy', but she is silent.

"Are you quite done Narcissa?" Father smirks at Mother. I feel uncomfortable at this, but I won't let this ruin _my_ day (well, night really) of glory.

I want to protect Mother, yet, I want to mimic Father's whole being. "I hope my party will be already for tomorrow evening?" I say this distractedly, but not disrespectfully, and hope that Mother understands. Such things are not for women to understand.

She must understand me because she leaves wordlessly, and does not turn around. Her crimson robes billow out behind her form as she disappears into the north wing of the Manor.

I stand on the bottom stair, transfixed, and hesitate a moment, rocking back on my heels imperceptibly. Do I _really_ want this? I look at the wand in my grip and blink once. Twice. Three times.

I glance over to Father and curl my lips into a smirk. He smirks back and fingers his walking stick. This time it does not bother me.

I let him walk ahead a pace and lead the way, though I know it well. Despite the fact that I know that there are other Death Eaters (and likely several human sacrifices, or so it was rumored) attending the ceremony and that they are likely already waiting, the hallway to my Father's library is shrouded in ethereal silence for once. We glide slowly past the long rows or portraits in varying stages of decay and opulence. Their eyes trail along with me.

They are all Malfoys. They have all studied the Dark Arts. They themselves have walked this path once and they know what I must do. What I _want to do._

Family is everything to us, and I am my father's son.

Some of the portraits have the audacity to whisper and point at me, as though I am wronging them somehow.

Cesare Malfoy, born 1623 is hissing. His portrait is crumbling, the paint cracking his face and his dark clothes chipping into nothingness. "You are not like your father. Not strong…" He has the cold grey eyes of the Malfoy's, and the silver hair, but his face is not pointed or angular. He is too soft. I slit my own eyes at him. He bludgeoned his parents with a Saracen battleaxe when he was twenty-two; their bodies were found three weeks later, heads severed and pickled in brine as trophies. He wanted to inherit early.

Vanity Malfoy, born 1701, scoffs haughtily at me. Her portrait is glossy and framed in thin silver. "What do you think you will prove by this, _boy? You already have all the money and power from your father that you could need…" She tosses her light brown (non-Malfoy) hair over the shoulder of her slate-coloured dress. It matches our eyes. She was caught experimenting new creative castration charms (for fun) on Muggles like Priapus Strangulatia and Corpus Explodum. She died in Azkaban awaiting trial, most likely from poisoning herself with a Mihi Mortem potion brewed ahead of time. She liked to be prepared for any consequences; she was an excellent witch._

Nero Malfoy, born 1789. He is painted in a watercolour landscape of the countryside surrounding the Manor. He is lording over his lands with his very presence there, one hand holding his wand. He is much more closely related to me than the other- a direct ancestor. He narrows his eyes, which are blue, not grey, and strokes his pointed chin between his thumb and forefinger. I do not see him say anything as I pass his portrait, but I hear the distinct insult 'Fool' behind me. What would he know? He raped his own sister, and then set them both alight on a wicker funeral pyre. The other portraits whisper that he liked Muggle music and it drove him insane.

Augustus Malfoy III. We do not know when he was born. His frame has no date and he always lies. His painting is oil on canvas. The colours are far too bright for a Malfoy, violets and fuchsias and yellows do not suit us. The other paintings glare at him for this, but he ignores them. He has grey eyes and a pointed face, but his hair is unkempt and scraggly and he has the beginnings of a beard. Malfoys never have beards. For once he does not make a pathetic attempt to divine my future with a broken dowsing rod. He is no soothsayer. Instead, he sighs. "Surely you must know that you are only harming yourself?"

I roll my eyes. The ceremony _does_ require my blood, along with other less tangible things.

No wonder he got himself killed in a pathetic Wizard's Duel that lasted all of three minutes. Prancing moron.

The last portrait in the hallway is different. I have never seen the woman sitting in it before. She is quite young, though her eyes have an unspeaking age. They unnerve me. She has dark hair and dark eyes and an oval face. She is not a Malfoy. Yet, I recognize her demeanor from a dream, but she is alone this time. She is wearing a necklace, with a too-big claw setting. It looks unusual. And it is glowing. It is the same necklace that _he_ wore. She looks at me stoically, pensively. Her face does not betray her thoughts. "One. Six. Seven. Third time's the charm."

I freeze in my tracks and my blood congeals. I have heard that before. I turn back to the portrait of her, but I only see wall, papered in a black French toile of dragons that are snorting smoke and rearing fitfully.

What the hell?

But I do not have time to contemplate the missing painting further. Father and I are now standing outside his private library where the ceremony is to be held. I can smell pungent herbs and noxious fumes dispersing into the air. There is macabre bone crunching and hollow stabbing noises from within. Cartilage and muscles and tendons and organs being ripped and torn and 'liberated' from the sacrifice, which I can sense is still breathing. This is confirmed when a woman's high-pitched scream follows. It ricochets in the hallway and the paintings perk up their ears towards in. A flash of neon green light illuminates the slits under the doors. It must have been Avada Kedavra, the killing curse.

The screaming stops.

One of the tall panel doors swings open and a short, sniveling rat-faced man sniffs the air, greeting us. He, too, is wearing enigmatic black robes that I know hide the Dark Mark on his left forearm. It is distinctive. A grisly black skull with a snake for a tongue that hisses and winds and coils.

I rub my arm in anxiousness, knowing that it will never be unblemished again.

"Pettigrew." Father acknowledges him, snarling distastefully. Pettigrew is a traitor. My father can never be accused of that. He has always remained loyal, to our family, at least.

"Malfoy," he replies, equally unpleasantly.

Pettigrew turns to me and I feel a hand on my upper arm. It is Pettigrew's. It is silver and unnatural. Metal that should not move in animation. It is compensation for his own, lost in the fight against the side of light. The cold metal pierces through my robes and dirties me. His touch is sickening, but I do not move or flinch. I will not be weak. 

_I_ am my father's son.

"Come, young Malfoy," he says in a squeaky voice that still very much resembles his years as a rat. "Our Lord awaits you."

The doors swing open dramatically and my last thought before I enter is of emerald green eyes that can love and hurt and betray and save and kill all at once.

The same eyes that hurt me. I will never allow myself to be deceived by the Light like that again.

There is no repentance for what I will become and what I will do. I do not care. I want revenge.

My father has killed many innocent victims time and again. I am his loyal, loving and devoted son. I will serve the Dark Lord's cause well.

And Harry Potter? If I cannot have you, I _will_ kill you. 

**Author's Note: **This ficlet was actually written nearly a year ago, well before Order of the Phoenix was released. Thus, it is now considered AU. And I had my reasons for not wanting to post it, but I felt now was the time.

I have to send a big, glomping thanks to my superb, amazing, excellent beta, Berne. She writes some amazing fics too that you should check out.__


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